


Hey, Kid.

by Peachykeenaspie



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Fear of Death, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy ending don't worry, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Kid Fic, Magic, Protective Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Remember the happy ending..., Sort Of, Soup, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Temporary Character Death, Witch Remus, witch!Remus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachykeenaspie/pseuds/Peachykeenaspie
Summary: When Roman collapses in the forest, bruised and bloody, he knows he's never making it back home. Not that home offers much solace. His cruel father seems to hate his very existence, after all, and he deserves it.Yet when he finally gives in to the elements, succumbing to certain death, the least thing he expects is to be rescued by the most evil being for miles around: the witch, Remus.But is Remus truly as evil as everyone says he is?
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders
Comments: 44
Kudos: 84





	1. Roman And The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> I have some of this written, but not all of it. I'm going to finish it at some point, but for now, enjoy Roman angst and Remus trying to be a good dad!!!  
> Not to be confused with Roman's biological dad, who is a sorry piece of dirt who should go crawl into a hole somewhere. ;)  
> Enjoy!

Roman isn’t thinking. He’s never thinking. That’s why Papa is mad, of course; it’s an excellent reason. Papa sent him to gather firewood in the morning. Roman had stacked the logs neatly at the side of the house, but he’d forgotten to put the waxed tarp over the pile to protect it from rain, so when it rained around lunchtime (that is, if Roman had earned his lunch in the first place), the wood had gotten wet.

After Papa is finished with him, he points at the door and tells Roman to go get more, and not come back until he does it right. Roman looks up at him from his curled-up position on the dirty pile of straw in the corner that he calls a bed, still trembling and clutching his arm to his chest where it will surely bruise later. His sunken cheeks and wide, long-lashed, hunger-panged eyes glisten with brimming tears that he will not let fall. He deserves the beating, after all; he wasn’t thinking. And he’s not thinking now, as his papa screams at him again to get out, as he tries to blink away the unwelcome blurriness that pricks at the corner of his vision and he whimpers. He’s not thinking as Papa growls and steps forward menacingly, reeking of alcohol, and Roman shoots up and darts out the door before Papa can reach him.

He doesn’t think about where he’s going. He never thinks. His breath is leaving his lungs hot and fast. His legs are pumping underneath him, but after a while he doesn’t feel them anymore, and he barely feels the pain of his blooming bruises. When the haze of tears and terror fades a little, he stops and sniffles. For once, he thinks, Papa could be proud. If he can get his head out of the clouds, and stop being so dramatic. If he can just get enough firewood, then he can go back home and Papa will be proud of him. Maybe. He ignores the part of him that points out that it had rained not hours before, and that _all_ the wood is wet. He also ignores the part that whispers that he doesn’t know where he is, and it’s already almost dark. And he is practiced in ignoring the part that softly, sadly suggests that maybe… he _shouldn’t_ go home. The thought is ridiculous. Just the kind of “not thinking,” _exactly_ the kind of fantasizing that annoys Papa to no end and always gets him in trouble in the first place. He’s too stupid to stay out here. He finds himself wandering aimlessly, weaving through the trees and picking up small sticks from the base of trunks, where it’s less damp. He finds a few small twigs, and cradles them like something precious because they _are_ precious, because without them, he can’t go home. He still finds it hard not to cry.

There he is, not thinking again.

Crying is for babies.

He barely notices when it starts to drizzle again, but it does, the cold seeping in through his clothes and his skin and making his thoughts sluggish and dismal. He does notice when the rain picks up, drops falling thick, wet and fast, stinging his skin, the perfect pinnacle of his misery.

The rain bites, pelting down from between the branches of the gnarled trees and making the ground slick. Roman slips, and then slips again, and when he looks up, wide-eyed, seeing the black, unfamiliar shapes looming all around him, that small part of him that he keeps trying to ignore screams that he’s _lost_ , that he can’t go back even if he wants to.

And then he realizes he doesn’t want to.

It’s stupid. Why shouldn’t he go back? It’s _Papa_. Roman is a _child_ ; he _belongs_ to him. But Roman still shudders when he closes his eyes and sees Papa’s murderous expression painted on the back of his lids. His breath hitches.

_So dramatic_. It’s not that _bad_. It’s only a few bruises. What’s that compared to the trouble he’s given Papa in his short life? He’s never practical, his mind always drifting off to make-believe stories of knights and chivalry and happiness. He’s annoying. He’s stupid. He’s insolent. It would be a favor for Papa, really, if he weren’t to go back. He’s a bad kid. Papa doesn’t deserve a bad kid. Papa always says so. Roman doesn’t want to be bad—he _doesn’t_. He can’t help it. He tries to be good, but Papa says he’s not. Roman scrubs his eyes with a bruised, dirty wrist.

_Don’t be dramatic_. Don’t _cry_.

Roman is dramatic. He cries.

He can’t see, but he hears a howling, far off in the distance, and his mind immediately runs wild, twisting the shadows into hunched, crooked trolls and dragons and witches leering down at him, and he shrinks from their malevolent gazes. _He has to go somewhere_. He breaks into a run, unconsciously dropping his meager bundle of sticks as he bolts. The ground is practically liquid now, with the rain.

Roman slips and his breath hitches in another sob, and he trips on a root and then tears are joining the raindrops on his face in full force, pouring down his face with more intensity than the rain. He’s never been good at _not_ crying, even if Papa punishes him every time he so much as makes a sound out of line. He hears another howl, a little bit closer, and he squeaks in fright, heart pounding against his skeletal ribs, as he scrambles to his feet and keeps running.

The witches and the trolls follow him wherever he goes, appearing in every tree he passes. Roman is crying harder. He doesn’t _want_ to die. He was _trying_! Really trying! The witches don’t care.

Papa doesn’t care.

Roman’s running, but he can’t breathe. His chest hurts.

He’s so cold.

The witches are close. _So_ close. They’re everywhere. Through the dark and through the tears, he doesn’t see the gorge ahead of him.

The ground gives way beneath his bare foot in a tumble of mud and rocks, and Roman pitches over the edge with a squeak and a sob, arms flailing. He rolls headfirst down a slope and hits his head against something hard. His leg catches on a sharp edge, tearing a long gash from knee to ankle. Roman cries out. He can’t stand. _He can’t stand_. His leg is on fire. He lets out another choked sob, dragging himself over rocks and through the mud to the nearest tree and and curls up at the base, violent shivers wracking his tiny body. He tucks his head into his knees so that he won’t have to look at the shadowy monsters all around him. He’s _so_ cold. The cruel rain has seeped into his very bones.

He’s too tired to berate himself for his stupid, thoughtless exaggerations, to tell himself he’ll be okay. As the howls sound again, even closer, Roman’s consciousness succumbs to fever and he falls into the void.


	2. Roman And The Witch

Roman doesn’t expect to wake up. The first thing he registers is that he’s uncomfortably warm, and he wonders if he’s died and gone to Dammation, like Papa always says he will. The smell of smoke, of mold, sulfur and something swampy assaults his senses, even though it’s dulled, his head impossibly stuffy. There’s a low rumbling coming from somewhere nearby.

Yup.

Dammation.

Roman flinches at the thought, his eyes opening, and he half expects to see flames in front of him.

Papa says there are lots of flames in Dammation.

On closer inspection, the only flames are crackling softly in a massive fireplace. There’s a big black cauldron hanging over it, with steam rising in lazy swirls. He’s in a small mud hut, plants hanging from the rafters and strange items cluttered on the floor and all over shelves. Light filters gently through a window.

Roman frowns. This isn’t what he thought Dammation would look like. Shouldn’t it look… scarier? Shouldn’t there be more cackling devils?

…More dragon-witches?

But there’s still a rumbling coming from somewhere nearby. Roman’s tired eyes track the sound to right next to him. He has to crane his neck a little, and when he sees the source, he jerks back so quickly his neck pinches. There’s a man sitting at his side, sleeping in a chair, mustache twitching as he snores loudly enough to shake the house. Roman knows he should be quiet, but he can’t help the tiny whimper of fear that escapes his lips. The man starts awake and his mismatched eyes, one electric green and the other muddy brown, meet Roman’s. He reaches out a hand. Roman curls up, shrinking away from the man, breaths catching in his throat, suddenly aware that his leg is wrapped up in some sort of bandages. The cut, if you could call it that. He can’t walk with his leg injured. Which means he can’t get away.

Roman is scared of adults, as a general rule; he knows nothing good happens when an adult reaches for him. But this man scares him particularly, and makes him _wish_ he were dead instead.

People say he cooks up little children for midnight snacks. People say he will set a demon loose on you if you make him mad. People say he draws his power from evil itself. Roman’s only ever seen him from a distance. One has only to look at the unhinged gleam in his eyes, the stark white streak in his hair that could only have appeared with dark magic, see him tromp into town with armfuls of slimy, evil-looking plants, see his manic wolf’s grin, to know that the man in the run-down hut a mile into the woods is their worst nightmare. Every child in the village knows to stay away from Remus, the witch.

…

The kid is _trembling_. The kid is _crying_. Remus had woken up to see the poor little guy staring right at him in terror, and he’d immediately reached out to see if he was okay. Not a good move, in retrospect. Remus freezes. He knows the villagers are terrified of him, and that’s not entirely their fault. He’s never done anything to prove otherwise, after all.

But he’s not _that_ bad a guy, is he? Sure, he may be a witch, but at least he’s _human_.

………Mostly.

As for whoever… _what_ ever had driven this kid into the forest last night, though… Remus has a strong urge to hunt them down and rip their still-beating heart out. And then stitch it right back into their chest. And then pull it out again. And harvest their blood so he can link their soul to the darkest part of the underworld and be certain they’ll suffer for the rest of forever. And then dump their twitching corpse into a cauldron of acid. Because those bruises all across the kid’s body and face aren’t all new.

But that’s a thought for Future Remus, because the kid in question is currently curled up on his bed, shaking.

“D-don’t… h-hurt…p-please…” the kid is practically sobbing.

Wow.

Remus isn’t _that_ scary, is he? But the kid looks more scared of the movement, of Remus reaching out to him, than he does of Remus himself.

No kid should have to be afraid of a hand. Rage bubbles up in Remus’ stomach like tar, but he tamps it down.

Again, that’s a thought for Future Remus.

“Hey, kid,” Remus says gently, taking his hand back as non threateningly as he can. His heart twists when the kid flinches at his voice. If Remus is honest, he has absolutely no idea what to say. How do you act in a situation like _this_? Remus will be the first to admit that his bedside manner is terrible. And his manners in general. He desperately racks his brain for something to say. “...I bet you’re hungry,” he blurts lamely.

The kid doesn’t respond, still trembling faintly and weeping silently, but Remus knows he needs a good, healthy, full meal. Or a hundred. When Remus found him balled up and bleeding against a tree trunk three nights ago in the rain, he hadn’t hesitated, but he had gasped at how light the kid was. He shouldn’t be that light; he looks like he’s going to blow away at the slightest draft. He was burning up until last night, too, and would have died of fever if Remus hadn’t found him when he did. And his leg is hurt, _real_ bad. Remus did the best he could to wrap it up, and used what healing spells he knew, but the kid needs energy, needs rest, and needs _safety_.

Remus hopes he can give him all those things. He swallows his nervousness at the unfamiliar situation. He’s _Remus_! Unfamiliar situations are his _lifeblood_! They’re his _thing_! If a sweet-looking kid like that can survive hell, then Remus sure as hell can manage to be comforting.

Right?


	3. Roman And The Soup

Roman’s going to be eaten by the witch, and he’s too scared to move. His leg hurts, and his stomach hurts, and his head pounds and it’s filled with fog, so he just cries. Since he left Papa’s house, he’s been too tired to hold it in. He knows he’ll get punished for crying, but he can’t _stop_ \- Remus stands up, and Roman shrinks even further back, ducking his head under the furs on top of him, sure that _something_ is going to happen.

Roman doesn’t know _what_ ; he’s never been caught by a witch before.

He just knows it can’t be nice.

The witch leaves, and Roman thinks for a moment that, maybe, Remus isn’t going to do anything.

Then the witch comes and sits back down.

“...Hey,” Remus says, voice filled with fake concern. Somehow that’s worse than if the witch had just cackled and picked him up and plopped him into the big cauldron in the corner. “You should eat something. Fatten you up a little.”

Roman lets out a tiny moan. The witch wants to fatten him up!

“…d-don’t eat me…” he whimpers.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the witch. “Shi— _oo_ t, kid, I… I didn’t mean it like that! You’re sick, and you need to get better. Here, look. I’ll even taste it for you. ‘Kay?”

Roman wishes he wasn’t so curious, but he is. Papa says he’s too curious for his own good. He peeks out from under the furs to see the witch take a slurp out of a spoon.

…

The kid is watching him. Good. His tiny face is pinched and streaked with tears, but his eyes, behind the fear, and under the shadow of the furs, are unmistakably shining with curiosity. Remus pretends he doesn’t see him, and slurps the soup. “Mmmmm, good!” he exclaims, smacking his lips. “Do you want to try some?” The kid flinches again, and Remus leans away reassuringly, still trying to look as non threatening as possible, holding the bowl of soup out to him. “Here, it’s good. I promise.”

A pale hand comes snaking out from under the blankets and takes the bowl.

Remus smiles.

The hand is followed by another, and then a small head of russet curls sits up, fur wrapped around the kid’s shoulders, uninjured leg pushed up underneath him. The kid backs up against the wall with the bowl, watching Remus warily, cheeks still tear-stained.

Remus picks up his spoon and takes a slurp from his own bowl, regarding the kid with as gentle an expression as someone like him can manage. Remus crosses his fingers behind his back.

The kid slowly, obediently, takes a sip of his soup, never taking his eyes off Remus. Remus would laugh, if the kid didn’t still look terrified to be in the same room as him.

The kid’s face slackens suddenly, and his eyes flick down towards the bowl, widening. “…Is this a _potion_?” the kid whispers, face shining with wonder.

Remus chuckles softly. “Sort of. It’s chicken soup. It’ll make you feel better.” Huh. Does soup count as a potion? If it were really _bad_ soup it could be counted as a _poison_... Remus tries not to think about the soup accidentally giving him or the kid food poisoning. That would _not_ end well-- _NOT THE TIME, REMUS_ , his inner dialogue hisses.

The kid hesitates, but then he drops his spoon and drinks right out of the bowl. He’s drained it in seconds. He wipes his hand across his mouth quickly and stares hungrily at the empty bowl.

Gods, this kid is adorable.

“Do you want seconds?” Remus asks encouragingly.

…

“Do you want seconds?” the witch urges.

_Seconds?_ Roman’s never gotten… ‘seconds.’ Often, he doesn’t get anything. Is it a trick? Probably. Roman doesn’t know. But the ‘chicken soup’ was _delicious_ , and if he’s going to be eaten, he might as well have more soup.

…

“Y-yes please,” the kid pipes out. His eyes track Remus to the cauldron and then back.

As soon as Remus hands him the bowl, the kid downs it all again.

It’s steaming hot. He probably burned his mouth. Poor kid; he’s starving. He needs some meat on those bones.

Remus can’t help but be reminded of himself; the kid’s vivacity shines through, even under the fear, the bruising, and the hunger.

Remus would have burned his mouth too.

…

The kid curls up after his third bowl of soup (he hadn’t asked, but Remus could tell he’d wanted thirds) and falls asleep. He’s struggling to stay awake-- Remus can tell that too (he’s perceptive like that)-- and he clearly doesn’t trust Remus (who doesn’t blame him, Remus wouldn’t exactly trust Remus either, except he wouldn’t _hurt a kid_ because what kind of _monster_ would do that--), but he’s too tired to stay awake.

Also, Remus’ eensy weensy nonverbal sleeping spell helps a little.


	4. Roman And The Unusually Large, Aggressively Indifferent Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?? A wild Virgil appears!!!
> 
> Fluff! And of course, angst too since I'm an angst gremlin and can't help myself.  
> I have no regrets.
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s a weight on Roman’s chest as he stirs awake. He cracks an eye open, for a moment unsure where he is. He shouldn’t be asleep this late! He has chores! Papa will— _oh_ . Fear floods his senses, sending everything into sharp focus and banishing the vestiges of sleep. The wood… the storm… _Remus_ … to Roman’s relief, the witch is nowhere to be seen, and he relaxes, although he can’t help but be ashamed at how vulnerable he’d let himself be, when he should have known better than to trust the _witch_ , even a little. But Remus didn’t do anything to him while he was sleeping, as far as Roman can tell, so the shame fades, leaving the calm of an early morning behind.

While there is no witch in sight, however, there _is_ an unusually large, unfamiliar cat, sitting right on his chest, leaning towards his face and _staring_ at him intently. Roman can feel the soft thuds as its tail flicks lazily on the blanket. Roman’s mouth quirks into a soft, tentative half smile as he and the cat regard each other, gleaming purple eyes meeting Roman’s own brown. 

“Hi, kitty,” Roman whispers reverently, reaching up a hand to scratch the scruff of the cat’s neck. The animal continues to stare at him, its nose so close to Roman’s head that its face takes up most of his vision and its long whiskers tickle Roman’s cheek, making his nose wrinkle, even as it begins to purr faintly. 

It doesn’t last. The cat, being a cat, suddenly seems to realize the undignified sound it’s making and draws itself up haughtily, stepping daintily to the foot of the bed and parking itself there. Roman sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and does a double take when he sees the two small horns that peek up from between the cat’s ears.

Now Roman is very curious.

Do a lot of cats have horns?

“I like cats,” Roman says conversationally. The cat’s ears twitch, and it blinks slowly, regarding him from the end of the bed with a mix of mildly disgusted feline blasé and thoughtfulness. Roman sends a nervous, cursory glance around the hut to make sure the witch isn’t listening in- he shouldn’t be talking, which is obvious. Back ho- back at Papa’s house, he would get punished for making the smallest noise. There’s no reason why being loud and annoying around the _witch_ , of all people, would be any different. “My name’s Roman. What’s yours?” The cat is unimpressed. Of course. What was he looking for, a response? _Stupid_ , his inner voice whispers, unbidden. Roman’s peaceful mood evaporates like smoke, and hard reality sets in. Cats can’t talk, and if the witch were there he would punish Roman for imagining otherwise, because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop being _stupid_ , he can’t be _good_ \-- why couldn’t Roman have just been _good_? Then he wouldn’t have ended up in the woods, a prisoner of an evil witch and trying to talk to a _cat_ , then Papa would just _love_ him-- suddenly, the warm air inside the witch’s lair seems stifling, oppressive, and Roman chokes on a sob. _Stupid-_ _don’t be a baby_. He furiously digs the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the water from leaking out. Why does he have to be so _bad_?

… 

How dumb _is_ this kid? Virgil snorts to himself. You don’t just give a demon your _name_ ! It’s, like, Demons 101. And now this is the _second_ pitiful mortal who gave up his name within the first five minutes of meeting him. Although, Virgil begrudgingly muses, he supposes he _can_ cut the kid _some_ slack. He can hardly be _expected_ to know Virgil’s a demon, as Virgil is, in fact, currently a cat. Still, it’s a good thing for him Virgil couldn’t care less about stealing the brat’s soul today. He’d almost be worried at how stupidly trusting the small child is, except, of course, that it doesn’t matter, because Virgil doesn’t care. He pities the brat, and that’s all- it is why Virgil will magnanimously _not_ refer to the brat by his real name- do him a favor and not claim his soul just yet.

Wait. Oh, wait, what? Oh, this is just _perfect,_ the brat is _crying_ now. _Just_ what he needs this morning. It’s annoying to no end (what else is he supposed to call that pinching feeling in his chest at seeing a sniveling, whining, skinny, _ridiculously and unreasonably innocent_ child cry? Empathy? _Protectiveness_? Don’t be ridiculous. Virgil’s allergic to children, and positive feelings.) Virgil knows there’s only one way to get the crying to stop, as irritating as it is. He languidly rises, pads over to the crying little brat and starts kneading the mattress-- except that the child’s uninjured leg is inconveniently in Virgil’s way (the little bother), so he ends up kneading the leg instead. 

Completely unintentionally.

The child’s whimpers peter off into weak sniffles. Virgil rolls his eyes inwardly. Pitiful human.

Then, _then_ , there are two small fists in Virgil’s fur, knitting into the soft hair on his back uncomfortably, and a small wet face buried in the scruff of his neck. _Oh, OHOHO,_ a _surprise_ attack! This is _not_ happening--

“Thanks, kitty,” the brat mumbles into his fur.

Whatever for? Virgil only wanted him to stop crying. It was setting him on edge. It’s not like Virgil meant to be _comforting_.

...

Roman decides he likes this kitty. There had been a few cats back in the village, but none of them seemed to like him much (most living things Roman comes in contact with don’t seem to like him very much, not that Roman’s had much contact with anyone other than Papa and some of Papa’s friends, when they would kick, beat, _laugh at_ \--). Roman shudders, nuzzling deeper into the cat’s soft black coat, feeling horrible for thinking those things about Papa and his friends. He knows he deserves it, everything that’s happened to him, and feels another sickening wave of despair coming on, so he focuses on the kitty again. He isn’t like any of the cats from the village, who would hiss and scratch him if he got too close. His pelt is sleeker, and he’s much, _much_ bigger, probably as big as a _dragon_ , but maybe not that big because dragons would probably not fit on the bed. His eyes are purple, bringing to mind the walls of his corner in Papa’s house, lit by one flickering candle when everything else is all shadowy and scary. And he has _horns_ , which is really cool! Roman never knew kitties could have horns, but maybe it’s a _magic_ kitty. Maybe it’s a faerie prince cursed into furry form and- _stupid_ . Stupid, _stupid_ , the voice in his head cuts in, hissing. _Don’t let the_ witch _hear you say things like that_ , it taunts, _or he’ll change his mind about_ eating _you_. Roman lets out another quiet moan at that and scoops kitty up and into his lap.

...

And now Virgil is in the child’s lap. The very same child who seems to be trying his _absolute_ hardest to ruin Virgil’s morning with his _inconsiderate_ sniffling. Virgil should have squirmed away (not that he will ever admit to _squirming_ , demons do not _squirm_ , but sometimes it’s _necessary, alright?_ ) as soon as his grubby little hands grabbed his fur, yet he is, to reiterate, now sitting _in the_ _child’s lap_. Virgil sniffs at the gross breach of personal boundary. It is _one_ thing to sit on a child and watch him sleep (to make sure he doesn’t have any nightmares-- the noise would disturb Virgil and distract him, and that’s just unacceptable), as any self-respecting cat or demon would do. 

It’s _another_ thing to have a _snotty little face_ stick itself into his meticulously groomed fur, and then have the snotty little brat who _owns_ the snotty little face wrap his arms around him all the way, making Virgil purr in an entirely involuntary manner, lift him onto his _snotty little lap_. It’s humiliating! Virgil has half a mind to scratch him and be done with the whole disaster. Really, he is. He wiggles out of the child’s grasp indignantly and is poised to jump off the bed when a whimper sounds from behind him.

“W-wait! Please, don’t go! I- I didn’t.. I didn’t mean to scare you!” The brat’s voice breaks, and Virgil turns around to see desolation and desperation written in every quivering line of the child’s body. The pitiful thing looks close to tears. Again. “I- I know that… I’m not good, and that you probably have better things to do, and you p-probably can’t even understand me, b-but…” his lip quivers, and he draws his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. Oh, no, this insult will _not_ stand! How _dare_ this sniveling little brat claim that Virgil can’t _understand_ him! And then _cry_ some more! It’s a blatant mockery of Virgil’s comforting! And the little beast is right, Virgil _does_ have better things to do, _much_ better things to do, but he just doesn’t feel like doing them. So how _dare_ this child say that he should go and do them! No, this is a _vicious attack_. Therefore, just to spite the sorry little thing, Virgil nonchalantly strolls back and rubs up against his leg.

The light but also weighted feeling that sits in Virgil’s heart (ha, there’s a shriveled lump where his heart should be) as he turns around doesn’t have anything to do with how quietly hopeful the child looks when Virgil comes back, how he lifts his little teary, sniffly head with widened eyes, how his mouth opens in a small _oh_ when Virgil wedges himself in between his thighs and his stomach, how his tentative, quavering giggles are so musical, ringing, as Virgil begrudgingly butts his head into his hand, or the delicate way his tiny, spindly, too-calloused fingers stroke Virgil ever so gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break him or he’ll vanish.

Which is ridiculous, because only higher-level demons can teleport, and Virgil’s much too stubborn to go anywhere. Virgil has _no_ intentions of moving.

He sighs, ears flattening contentedly as the child scratches him right in _that_ spot, the one he can never reach.

That’s it, he decides.

The child is his now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's likely that the time interval between each chapter posting will be about a week, like the interval between chapters 3 and 4. It may vary, but hopefully you'll all get a new chapter every week!!  
> :)  
> <3


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